Adarin crested the ruins of the final gatehouse, the burning undead parting around him like torches of damnation. A vision of hell awaited him on the other side, as the undead parted around him—marching onward with their inevitable shamble.

  Rüdiger floated in the air, leisurely, almost theatrical—his gaze fixed on the last survivor of the enemy adventurers. I guess he’s going to seal her fate.

  Adarin clicked his tongue. That performance of his. He shivered. Could he have finished it sooner? How much of a chance did they actually have?

  None at all, some part of Adarin answered.

  Fires were spreading through the tents. Women, elderly men, children, the injured—screaming and running.

  At some points, resistance was forming. But the necromancers focused their undead servants' attention onto such issues. Into any group that began to organize. Civilians armed with knives, scrounged-up pikes, or the butts of muskets were no match for organized undead pikemen.

  Adarin heard heavy crunching behind him and refocused his attention, turning within his mind sphere. Liora stood there, flanked by the burned, skeletal swamp troll and the rotting abomination. She surveyed the situation, her lips set in a tight line.

  Adarin said nothing. I promised to help her. No one said anything about making it easy on her. Or fucking doing it for her, he snarled privately.

  Lyra swallowed hard as the musketeers crested the hill and formed up on its downhill slope. She seemed about to say something—but a first volley cut into several points of resistance. A second was already being prepared, the flintlock’s limitations offering her fifteen seconds of grace.

  She cleared her throat again. "Um..." She looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry, Adarin."

  "You're sorry?" Adarin nearly hissed at her.

  "Yeah. I knew that was wrong. But this… this is slaughter. Just because it’s expedient doesn’t make it right."

  Adarin shook his head.

  "Liora, in war, there are legitimate and illegitimate targets." He spoke very slowly, his voice dripping with condescension. "Soldiers are legitimate. Children and puppies are illegitimate targets. Do we agree on that?"

  Liora furrowed her brows, but nodded.

  "So—people a lot smarter than me have reasoned out that anyone who is directly supporting an enemy soldier is also a legitimate target."

  "Like?"

  He gestured with one of his manipulators. "Camp followers. The injured. Medics. Or whoever sees fit to profit off the soldiers of an army by following them around. Those people know what risks they choose. We are not massacring innocent farmers here."

  Liora pressed her lips together. "We are not going to massacre anyone here."

  Adarin just shrugged, shifting from foot to foot. "So at what point—"

  Another volley of musket fire cut off her words, cutting down more enemies. More legitimate targets, Adarin noted grimly.

  The fire was spreading through the camp. What had once been a marketplace behind the gate was now inferno and chaos.

  Adarin quickly checked in with the necromancers leading faster undead through side alleys, cutting off paths of retreat. He was very pleased to see that some of them had so-called specters—gaseous undead capable of manifesting and disassembling themselves—who were hunting down escapees and messengers.

  If we can’t hit their offensive units in the forward operating bases with surprise attacks, everything falls apart. He glanced at Liora. And this makes it more likely that it falls apart.

  He looked at her directly. "I hope you know that everyone you’ve gotten friendly with might die if this goes wrong. Right? And that what you're making me do makes it more likely that things go wrong."

  She stared at her shifting feet again. "Adarin, please. Please use your voice. Tell them to give up. Tell them they won’t be killed."

  Adarin said nothing in reply. He studied the din of battle around them—the thunder of guns, the screams and gurgling of the dying, the roaring fire.

  "Liora. Do you really think people fighting for their lives are just going to do that?"

  She hissed her response, a note of flint creeping back into her voice.

  Adarin rolled his eyes, standing in his command sphere. "Very well."

  He ran some quick numbers—best guesstimates of where the enemy’s forward operating bases were—and adjusted the volume. 73% should do it. Yeah.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Then he began broadcasting: "Attention, attention. Anyone who lays down their weapons within the next 60 seconds will not be killed. We will not kill women and children. You will be taken prisoner and treated humanely. Attention, attention..."

  He kept repeating it. Many threw glances at him—mostly their own soldiers, necromancers and musketeers alike.

  Liora looked around, narrowing her eyes. "Why are they not surrendering?"

  Adarin chuckled darkly. "Because others have to do the hard work of making surrender a more appealing option than dying where they stand."

  A few volleys of canister shot would go a long way to convincing the survivors. Those few survivors, Adarin chuckled to himself.

  But slowly, one by one, the wounded were herded up—through Adarin and Liora’s orders. About a third of those who had originally been there. A good fraction of those too injured to fight—but not too injured to leave the burning tents.

  To Liora’s horror, several hospital tents had gone down—burning, with everyone within them slowly and painfully roasted. Though they were never likely to survive this anyway. Even burning alive couldn’t motivate them to move.

  Adarin had not discussed that particular tidbit with Liora. They marched up to the cordon of pikes holding the mob at bay.

  They had thrown down weapons. More than one had thrown their weapon at the undead instead of at their feet.

  Adarin stepped over a bent matchlock musket, its butt smeared with the viscera of a zombie’s brain. Captured equipment. I wonder if Rüdiger would agree that it's free—or if he'd argue there's no free lunch because we had to conquer it. A smile played on Adarin’s lips in his mindspace.

  Liora straightened up as several musketeers brought over a table and righted it. She climbed on top of it.

  Adarin stayed vigilant, and the abomination stood slightly in front of her and to the side—ready to catch any ambitious pistoleer. Though unless the shot kills her directly, she’s very likely to survive it. Well. It's her funeral.

  "Honored soldiers and camp followers. I, Liora Iskara, Priestess of Mother Ishna, swear by my goddess—you who lay down arms will live. You will not be enslaved. You will not be butchered. On my life, I swear it."

  A vicious matronly clutching a cleaver called out in mockery. “Look, the young witch is pinky-promising not to eat our children!” Chuckles of nervous contempt spread through the crowd.

  Adarin pinged Liora over the noospheric link. ‘Order someone to shoot her. That will set the correct tone for this interaction.’

  Liora’s eyes widened and she shook her head slightly. ‘No. I just promised them.’

  Adarin rolled his eyes. She’s failing prisoner management 101. ‘There’s always one fool who tests the leash. Shoot her and the rest will fall in line like beaten dogs.’

  "I swear," she said, louder now, "I swear by the One—by my oath to the Holy Mother—lay down your weapons peacefully and you will be safe. I promise. Or may the One strike me down if I am lying."

  The crowd rippled with unease—murmurs, sharp glances, the shuffle of boots edging back from undead pikes.

  Adarin set his volume to 73% again. "Do as she says."

  People scrambled back. Even their own soldiers flinched.

  But then the vicious matron lowered her cleaver before lowering it. "Very well. We’re dead anyway, right?"

  Grim resignation settled on her face. With a metallic cling, the cleaver blade hit the ground in front of the feet of the undead. Not dropped. Not thrown at them. Merely toward them.

  I guess this is our biggest diplomatic success of the last two days, Adarin noted dryly.

  He seized the lull, glancing at the Eye of the System tattoo. The familiar ripple of text scrawled across his wooden flesh.

  You have defeated 37 human soldiers.

  Average normalized strength difference: 77%.

  You have gained four levels.

  You have defeated five mages.

  Average normalized strength difference: 103%.

  You have gained four levels.

  Your achievements in commanding on the battlefield have been noted.

  Your implant upgrade options have been adjusted.

  Adarin smiled—and noticed that Liora was mirroring him, also checking her gains.

  "How many levels?" he asked.

  She didn’t smile. She just looked tired.

  "Six," she said.

  Then a message came over the noospheric link:

  ‘Very well. Good job, Liora. You pacified them.

  Now—Mathilda, begin preparing the ritual. We have no time to lose. Clean up.

  Yes, the area a hundred steps city-inwards from where you’re standing will do.

  Devin, Gavin—how long till you have the artillery targeted on the prisoners?’

  Adarin didn’t hear the answer—but Rüdiger repeated it: ‘Thirty seconds.’

  ‘Good. Necromancers, get the undead ready. Musketeers—prepare. But don’t do it in an obvious manner. A quick, coordinated strike.’

  Liora hissed at Rüdiger through the link. ‘No. I just promised not to kill them.’

  ‘Liora, we had a plan. You didn’t say anything during the command meeting. You knew.’ Rüdiger's voice seemed almost mocking. What is he doing?

  Liora reached a hand up to the sky—and thousands of woven cords of purple and green energy twisted in a helix appeared.

  Adarin saw others—necromancers with the same cords as well. The strings of the Puppet Masters.

  Rüdiger rose into the sky, floating with robes billowing—an eccentric demigod whose annoyance crackled like thunder in the air. "Liora, cut it out. This is not the time for it."

  The crowd stirred. Murmurs broke out—not only among the prisoners, but also the soldiers. Great. And now we have a pissing contest over chain of command. Can this day get any fucking worse?

  Rüdiger made an expansive gesture. "Kill them."

  "No!" Liora screamed again.

  The strings in her hand flared. She pointed her other hand at Rüdiger—and made a pulling motion.

  The spectral cords bent and screamed against unseen pressure, warping the very air around Rüdiger as Liora’s defiance dragged at his control. "You will not."

  The prisoners began screaming as the undead began advancing.

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  The Dungeon Broker

  The Sewage of Slaughter.

  System Log: Subject STEVEN YORK.

  Status: Dungeon rep.

  Assets: crime interface, slime contacts, shady contracts.

  Origin: MMO corporate nightmare.

  Complication: gremlin lawsuits, loot farmers, idiotic accomplice.

  Risk factors: HR audits, economic collapse, sewer stench.

  Forecast: criminal empire (pending).

  The Dungeon Broker.

  ?? Release Schedule:

  2 chapters a day!

  Until corporate switches it to 1 per day in October.

  No hiatus, Book 1 is finished.

  Just crime, slime, and at least one gremlin lawsuit!